


Across The Still Deep

by SailorChibi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mycroft's Ring, implied prostitution, mention of OC death, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-20
Updated: 2013-08-20
Packaged: 2017-12-24 03:31:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/934796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SailorChibi/pseuds/SailorChibi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Only Greg knew why Mycroft wore the ring.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Across The Still Deep

**Author's Note:**

> I had a random urge to write some Mystrade, and this was the result.

"Not the ring sort this time around, hmm?"

Greg blinked down at the stack of reports that he had been steadily making his way through. It took him far longer than it really should have to realize that Sally's comment had nothing to do with them. He raised his head slowly and gave her a blank look. She grinned and gave him coffee.

"I saw your bloke a couple of days ago when he left your office," she explained between sips of her own. She tapped her ring finger and added, "Nice ring he had on. Didn't realize you two were so serious, since you haven't been wearing one."

Of course she'd noticed. "Seemed better not to tempt fate," he said.

She frowned. "And he's alright with that?"

"It's - yeah. Listen, could you get me the file on the Bare case? And the one on Francine, thanks there's some details here that aren't adding up and I want to double check." He waved her out before she could ask any more questions. Sally was good at what she did, but she could be easily distracted with the right tactics. By the time she came back, she'd have forgotten all about her question.

Too bad he wouldn't forget that easily.

He tried to keep his mind on the reports, but more than once he found himself thinking about the slender gold band that Mycroft wore on his right hand. It wasn't a wedding ring; he and Mycroft had been open with each other in regards to their past relationships, and Mycroft had never mentioned anyone that had been that serious. No, it was much more likely that his ring was a family heirloom, his mother or grandmother, and he wore it in remembrance of them.

But it continued to nag at him as he took the underground home, back to the flat he and Mycroft shared. He'd wondered about it before, of course, but he'd never found the courage to ask. Which was ridiculous, really: they were lovers, had been dating for over three years, and short of job-related confidences there were few things he didn't already know about Mycroft Holmes. That this ring should be the one thing he hesitated over was peculiar, and he was annoyed at himself for letting Sally's innocent query get to him.

Mycroft was already home when he arrived, tucked into bed and sound asleep with the air of someone who has been awake for far too many nights. Greg checked on him briefly before retreating back to the sofa with a beer. He knew that Mycroft would pout over the fact that he'd been left to sleep after Greg had gotten home, particularly since they hadn't seen each other for a couple of days, but honestly the man looked like he desperately needed the sleep and Greg could wait. He was a patient man.

In the end it was the smell of a Chinese takeaway that lured Mycroft out of the bedroom, blinking and rubbing his eyes sleepily like a lazy toddler. Greg regarded him with an indulgent smile and patted the cushion beside him. "Come sit down, it's still hot and I got your favourite," he said.

"You should've woke me up," Mycroft said, nevertheless joining him on the sofa and accepting one of the white boxes. He peered inside and made a contented sound.

"You were tired."

"I haven't seen you in far too long. Sleep could have waited."

Greg chuckled and leaned over to kiss him, tasting spices and orange. "Not when it comes to your health, it can't," he replied lightly. His eyes dropped in spite of himself, searching for and taking in the ring automatically. He'd never really thought about it before, but Mycroft really only removed it during a shower.

"My health is fine." 

"And I want to keep it that way," Greg said, muting the telly. This was an old and familiar argument, and he wasn't willing to dwell on it. "Tell me about your trip."

Between bites of takeaway, the food freely shared between them, Mycroft divulged what he could of his recent trip to America. Greg listened closely, reading between the lines to hear what Mycroft was unable to openly admit, but his gaze lingered on the ring. In the privacy of their own home, Mycroft often spoke with his hands. The ring caught the light with every wave of his hand, making it impossible to ignore. 

He realized suddenly that Mycroft had stopped talking and looked up. "Sorry, what did you say?" he asked.

Mycroft was looking at him with a faintly troubled expression. "Is there something wrong? You keep staring at me. No, at my hands. At first I thought you were anxious to finish with dinner so we could retire together, but that's not the look you usually wear when you look at my hands." He glanced down and reached the conclusion so quickly that Greg could only grimace. "My ring?"

"I'm sorry," Greg said automatically.

"You have nothing to apologize for, Gregory."

"No, I - well, I guess that's true." Why shouldn't he know why Mycroft wore the ring? "I just... it occurred to me today that you never told me who or what it was for. You don't have to tell me, I'm just being curious."

There was a succinct pause. Mycroft's face grew pensive, though he did not look angry. "You deserve to know," he said at last, and setting aside the box of food he got up and left. He returned in less than a minute, carrying a piece of paper. It was only after he handed the paper over that Greg realized it was a photograph.

The picture depicted a child, dressed fairly simply in blue jeans and a white t-shirt, sitting on a swing in front of the ocean. He was bare foot and easily recognisable: Greg would have known those trademark, whirlwind curls anywhere. It was Sherlock, he thought with an amused smile, probably about the age of five or six. Unlike the detective that Greg knew, who only seemed to get excited over cases and John Watson, the Sherlock in this photo was smiling broadly at whomever was holding the camera. There was genuine excitement in those brown eyes.

He started to look back up at Mycroft when it hit him.

Sherlock's eyes were greyish blue.

He froze, breath catching, and brought the photograph closer to his face as though that would enable him to divine more details. Definitely brown, the colour too unlike Sherlock's eyes to be anything else. And now that he examined it more closely, he noticed that the child's nose was a little larger and the cheekbones were not quite as pronounced. The similarities were striking, but it was not Sherlock.

"I don't understand," he said, confused. "Who is this? What does he have to do with your ring?"

"She," Mycroft corrected quietly. "Her name was Arianna White, née Holmes."

It was the past tense that caught Greg's attention. He looked up quickly, noting the unmistakeable lines of grief etched into Mycroft's face. "Your sister?" he asked, already knowing that was wrong.

"No. Sherlock's daughter."

Greg leaned back against the sofa. "Sherlock's _daughter_ ," he repeated blankly. "I didn't know -"

"Few people do," said Mycroft, cutting him off neatly. "What I am about to tell you, Gregory, you must never repeat. Not to anyone, including my brother."

"I won't."

Mycroft studied him briefly before sighing. "You already know that Sherlock went through a period where the only thing that mattered to him was drugs." He wrinkled his nose distastefully. "At one point, hoping that it would convince him to change his ways, I cut him off. Being stubborn, he decided to employ different methods of getting his hands on what he wanted. Arianna was the end result."

"Jesus," Greg breathed, staring again at the photograph. 

"Sherlock was never aware of her existence."

"Never? But -"

"Arianna was born when Sherlock was only nineteen and in the beginning stages of his destructive spiral. By the time he met you and began improving, she had already died."

And here it was, the crux of the matter. Greg straightened. There was raw pain in Mycroft's voice, something he had never heard before. "What happened?"

"I kept close tabs on Sherlock even after we parted ways, and my assistant informed me when one of the women he'd slept with became pregnant. She made the decision to bring the child to term, but she was unfit to be a mother. After making sure that Sherlock was the father with a paternity test, I took it upon myself to take her in."

"You?" Greg said before he could stop to think about how that might sound. He and Mycroft had never sat down and outright discussed the idea of children, but Greg had discerned that Mycroft had no interest in kids. Not after the handful that Sherlock had been. 

Fortunately, Mycroft just smiled slightly. "By take her in, I meant that I found a suitable family to leave her with," he clarified. "Arianna was being raised by a very loving set of parents, but when she was six years old their house burned to the ground in the middle of the night. The fire started in the kitchen and spread much too quickly. I was told that she died in her sleep, unaware of what was happening." He looked away, off to the side, for the first time refusing to meet Greg's eyes. "There didn't seem to be much point in telling Sherlock about her after he was clean. I suspect that it would only have made him uncomfortable. And if he ever deduced her existence, he has not mentioned it."

"That's awful," Greg said. It was sounded absurd, but it was the only thing he could think of to say. The greatest loss he'd experienced so far was when his wife had left him, and that was nothing at all compared to the loss of a child. Because no matter what Mycroft might say, Greg could tell that Arianna White had been deeply loved by her uncle. Deep enough that he still wore a ring in her honour even years later. He reached out and touched the ring, a silent request, and Mycroft nodded. 

The ring was warm from the heat of Mycroft's body when Mycroft dropped it into the palm of his hand. Greg rubbed his thumb over the smooth gold. Mycroft's fingers were slender, so it was too small for his ring finger. It fit his pinkie, though, when he tried to slide it on. He pulled it off again and flipped it over, peering at the inside. There was an inscription, so old that the finely etched letters were worn down. Two letters, AH, and a date. At first he thought it was a date of death, but then it occurred to him that that wouldn't add up. It was a birth date. 

"It was sentimental of me, I suppose," Mycroft said, watching the ring closely. "But when Mummy passed away and bequeathed me her ring, it seemed like a fitting way to remember them both."

"I think it's lovely," Greg said softly. To be honest, he was a little surprised that Mycroft would have allowed himself a physical reminder like that. It had taken years before Mycroft had let him in, and even now Mycroft occasionally balked at the whole emotional aspect of their relationship. Arianna must have been something special indeed. But then, considering who her father was, perhaps that wasn't overly surprising after all. He had long ago accepted that Mycroft's love for him was surpassed only by his love for his brother, even if neither Holmes would ever admit it.

He reached over and took Mycroft's hand. His skin was pale, but not so pale that Greg couldn't tell how rarely he removed the ring. There was a thin strip of white flesh across his finger. He nudged the ring into place and then leaned down and kissed it. Arianna would have been a young women now. He wondered what she would have been like, if she'd have been as intelligent as her uncle, as precocious as her father. Would she have inherited the Holmes penchant for getting into trouble? Perhaps she would've gone into government, or haunted Greg's crimes scenes, or maybe she would've had her own brand of mischief. 

"I miss her," Mycroft admitted.

That one admission felt more intimate than anything else. Greg squeezed his hand, unable to think of anything to say. "I'm sorry," he said finally, the words feeling inadequate. "But thank you for telling me."

"You're welcome. I haven't spoken about her for a very long time. My assistant eventually left, and I never mentioned her to Anthea. Though I'm sure she knows," he added with another faint smile. 

"There's nothing Anthea doesn't know." Greg kept rubbing his thumb across the ring. Now that he knew what it signified, he couldn't help seeing it in an entirely different light. He wondered, though he would never ask, how Mycroft had handled her death. It must have been terribly difficult, particularly since Sherlock had still been heavily involved by drugs at the time. 

The yawn, such as it was, caught him completely off guard. Mortified, he clapped his free hand over his mouth. The room was warm and the edge had been taken off his hunger, and now his body was demanding sleep. "God, I'm sorry."

"Don't be. Apparently I'm not the only one who's been neglecting sleep," Mycroft said, chuckling. He leaned over and kissed Greg, just once. "Thank you for listening to me," he murmured. "Now come on. It's early yet, but I could use a good night's sleep and the hotel room I was staying in was dreadful."

Greg smiled as he stood up. He was willing to accept the change of subject and let the topic of Arianna slide for the time being; Mycroft wasn't the only one who didn't sleep well when he was away. He tugged Mycroft to his feet and guided him across the room towards the door, not caring that the takeaway would probably spoil, pretending not to notice that Mycroft slipped Arianna's photo back into his pocket as they left.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on [tumblr](http://tsuki-chibi.tumblr.com/).


End file.
